


Not A Kitten

by Mansurovacool



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Drama, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Psychology, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 07:07:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mansurovacool/pseuds/Mansurovacool
Summary: It is not possible to take a teenager from the street like a little kitten and John is well concerned about it. But his heart is against his sense.





	Not A Kitten

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Edalari](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edalari/gifts).
  * A translation of [Не Котенок](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/435457) by Illy. 



> The permission for translation was asked and given. It is my first work as a translator so I suppose all fails and mistakes to be mine but not the author's ones.From the first lines I fell in love with this work and I think that tenderness and true love will never spoil this world. Thanks Edalari for her wonderful stories.

It is raining in London again. John leaves the hospital and glances back gloomily. Nobody needs a young doctor who has just finished the internship and is not able to present any recommendations .

Though maybe somebody needs him but John doesn’t agree as he has some exceptional circumstances.

John sighs and wraps himself tighter in his coat. He glimpses a wet morose figure on the parapet out of the corner of his eyes. Firstly he thinks that it is a kitten but no – it is a thin teenager in a torn and ragged jeans jacket which is obviously small to him is sitting hunched up with cold on the concrete. John turns his head away, makes two steps. Then he stops, cursing everything in the world, and firstly he damned himself, secondly this awful rain and then this shivering boy who is not a kitten. John takes off his coat and stretches it over the teenager’s head. 

He looks up surprisingly – his eyes are grey, magical, crystal, the same colour as the rain around them.

"Are you lost?" asks John.  


"It seems to me, I’m found, " answers the boy.

His voice is quiet, hoarse, breaking and changing but at the same time it is rather deep and wonderful. And John doesn’t find his answer cheek or strange but it seems to be the only possible right answer.

"Let’s go then…"

John doesn’t reflect what he is doing. The foundling stands up and it is clear that he is as tall as John. It looks like his arms and legs being too long for him and he is not able to manage their movements properly. The dirty sweatpants are too short for his and so are the sleeves of his jacket . It gives the impression that the teenager has grown in a moment and can’t get comfortable in the new body. John puts his coat on his shoulders and asks, "How old are you?"  


"Seventeen," lies the boy.

John sighs and waves his hand going towards the tube. The teenager follows him, losing a half-step.  
The home meets John with a loud baby’s crying. He rushes to the cradle and takes the baby in his arms.

"I couldn’t calm her, " says an old woman with reproach and streaky purses her lips ."You are late!"  
"Surely, I’m sorry," answers John.

The dame turns and notices the boy and the air of her face clearly demonstrates all her attitude to John. Her opinion about John has fallen down low and now it is close to the Earth’s core. Without saying a word she showers the foundlings with icy scorn and leaves the room.

"Who is it?" asks the boy, nodding at the baby.

"My daughter, Rosie. Rosamund Mary Watson. O, gosh! I’m John."

"Yeah. Well. One thing – you scare her".

"What?"

"You're wet, cold and shaking her too roughly," explains the boy. " Have a shower and I’ll take care of her."  
John puts Rosy back to the cradle and crawls to the bathroom. The moment he washes away the shampoo from hair is the moment he realizes. Getting out of the shower, steamed and wet, he bursts into the living room expanding to find it empty. But the boy is sitting in front of the sofa, miming and showing horns with his fingers, and Rosy in dry clothes is sitting on the sofa, laughing loudly and demonstrating her two little frontal teeth.

The foundling looks at John sceptically and informs him, "You’re still wet."

Being embarrassed, John returns to the bathroom. 

Drying himself with a towel, John tries to understand what he's doing by taking this not-a-kitten to home and entrusting him his daughter’s life. It seems that the boy has hypnotized him… John sighs. Nobody hypnotized him. It has just happened. It is his goofy nature! John couldn’t leave him alone there, he just wasn’t able to. It would be pretty easier if it were a kitten!

Having finished, John sends the boy to take shower, finds some clothes for him, and cooks dinner – firstly for Rosy and then for him and the foundling. Being dressed in John’s warm checked shirt the boy looks in a funny way, especially when his drying hair becomes curly. He eats rather quickly but neatly, using all the flatware with confidence.

"What is your name?"  


"How do you want to call me?"  


John squirms, "Stop it, please."  


For some seconds the boy stares at him, examining him carefully.  


"Sherlock."  


John thinks that it is a nick, but he decides to take his word.  


"Did you run away from home? Are you looked for?"  


the boy slouches and glanced at John gloomy. And doesn’t say any word.  


"Have your meal," sighs John, understanding that he’ll have no answer.

Having made Sherlock comfortable at the sofa for the night, John tosses and turns till the midnight trying to decide what to do and falls asleep at last without any idea. Some time later he is wakened by the cool hands, which tentatively slides down his body .  


"I’m not a child molester," nags John being sleepy and he even can’t find any forces to be angry with the world, in which it is normal for a child to pay with his body for the shelter and food .  


"Can I bet I’ll make you change?" whispers Sherlock to his stomach, but John grabs him, swaddles him in the blanket and holds him and doesn’t allow to swing or move.

"All kittens climb to the bed to get warm, " murmurs John closing his eyes.

" I’m not a kitten! " sizzles and hisses Sherlock angrily. 

" It’s too bad, " giggles John and falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

Sherlock doesn’t answer any questions. Sherlock cooks omelets and spaghetti souse properly. Sherlock easily finds a common language with Rosie. And Sherlock even washes the dishes – sometimes, of course. In a day John begins to think that Sherlock lived with them for all his life. There is no necessity to ask the landlady to be a babysitter for a couple of hours while John is job hunting round the city. Sherlock makes a very tasty coffee and awful but hot tea when John returns home and his unpleasant flat changes magically and turns into the light and cosy home. Sherlock sneezes in a funny way and looks like exactly a little surprised kitten. Having his cold cured by John, Sherlock begins to sing lullabies for Rosie. And his voice is strikingly beautiful. He stays out of John’s bed and step by step he starts acting like a usual teenager. And it is very interesting to walk with Sherlock as he is superhumanly attentive, he has a well-developed adult sense of humour and a rather sharp tongue. In addition, his exclusive education and bringing up become more and more clear through alien vulgarity and cynicism. But it is true that if Sherlock notices this, he shuts like an oyster and hides under the mask of a gutter child. But John isn’t cross or angry with him.

Once Sherlock stops dead in front of the music shop window.

"What is there? " asks John.  


"A violin, " sighs Sherlock, his fingertips running and touching along the window glass

The price of the violin is 300 pounds that’s why Sherlock doesn’t even ask, just rubs his hands over it as if to say “goodbye”, and turns away.

It is painful for John to watch it.

"Did she die?"

"Who?"

"Rosie’s mother. Your wife."

"Yes," answers John briefly and stiffly.

Sherlock looks at him and his magic eyes glance. He is sprawling on the sofa and Rosie is having nap on his belly. John just feasted his eyes looking at this picture but his relaxation left him without leaving any mark

"Was she a good wife?"

John keeps silence for some time as he is thinking and then he shrugs his shoulders.

"I don’t know."  


"How can it be?" asks Sherlock and his voice is demanding.  


"And this is how." answers John gloomily. " We had been dating for a short time and we didn’t plan to live together. I had my internship and she was in college… She said she had used the contraception but she got pregnant. Abortion was unbearable and she turned it down. We got married. She died in childbirth."

"I’m so sorry," Sherlock whispers.  


"I knew her less than a year, Sherlock, and the most part of this time she was pregnant. I don’t know what kind of mother could she be. I didn’t have time to know."  


"Did you like her?"  


John’s answer can hardly be heard, but he is extremely honest and fair, "I don’t know it."  


Roughly in two months after Sherlock’s coming to John, the landlady catches John on the stairs and presents him with an ultimatum: either John turns the tramp out of the flat because she cannot bear any lechery and sodomy in her house, or she will call to the police and agencies of guardianship and he will have his daughter removed then . And she finishes him off with the reminding of the unpaid bills.  


Having spent all day with Rosie, Sherlock is sleeping. And John is sitting in the armchair all night long staring at him.  


It is not allowed to pick up teenagers like kittens. The twenty-four-year man is not allowed to love the fifteen-year-old boy and it doesn’t matter how pure and platonic this love is.

John doesn’t have any way out.

John knows that there is a solution anyway.  


In the morning, he tries to behave as usual, pretending not to notice Sherlock’s alarmed glances. He leaves the house, comes to the nearest public-phone box and makes two calls.

He returns in two hours and gives Sherlock the violin. And watches, watches, watches.

He watches at the eyes which are the same colour as rains of London. And they are blazing with happiness. He looks at Sherlock dancing with his arms round the violin. Then Sherlock carefully takes it out of the case, lovingly tunes it up and begins to play. He is lost in the music . 

John memorizes every moment to save it forever. To save and not forget when…  
In the morning he is waken up with a yell:  


"What’s it? John…"Sherlock is holding the copy of his army contract in his arm. "It is for seven years! SEVEN YEARS!!!!"  
Sherlock’s hands are shaking and trembling , his voice is strained, the eyes are glittering with tears.  


"You will be killed! John!"  


Rosie has been wakened with the screams and shouts and begins to cry.  


"And what about Rosie?"

"My sister will take her," John is speaking in a husky voice. Sadness, sorrow. "If you…"

"It is my fault, isn’t it?" interrupts Sherlock with desperate and horror."This is my fault. I don’t need any violin! I don’t need anything! " 

John tries to thrust in a word but fails. 

" I… I will change… I will improve everything! You will find a job! Give me a moment! I will return immediately, don’t leave! Do you hear me? Please, please, don’t leave!"  
Sherlock slums out of the flat, shuts the door with bang and John is just not able to catch him. When he runs outside, the boy can’t be seen. 

"Gosh," murmurs John. " What’s the hell!"  


He is waiting for a week – it is the time he was given for packing. He is waiting and Harry is waiting with him. John came to an arrangement with her to put not only Rosie in ward but to look after Sherlock and take care of him. Harry is kind like John and she has regular work and her own accomodation. She has a half of a house in the suburbs. Harry bills and coos and takes care of Rosie , who has been crying for two days about Sherlock ,but finally calms and takes her. But John is waiting. And Waiting. And in the long run Harry claps him on the shoulder trying to console him and says without any confidence," It’s high time, John. I’m afraid he will not return. I hope he will not be lost."  


But John thinks that he has already been lost. He is so helpless and defenceless, like a kitten, worries John. John troubles how Sherlock is. He is sure he had to hide the damned contract better. He supposes he should tie him to the armchair and make him listen to him instead of letting him away.  


John carefully avoids thinking about little kittens which are hit by cars. About little kittens torn by dogs. About kittens, which were tortured by evil boys. About kittens which were thrown to the river indifferently.

Because if only John begins to think about them he will exactly go mad.

He sees Harry off and says goodbye to his daughter. Returned to his place, he gloomy draws a funny face on the dusty place – point, point, and comma. It is impossible to procrastinate and wait any longer. John writes a note with Harry’s address and asks to come to her immediately, puts it on the strings of the violin and takes it to the landlady with the keys and payment.

\- Do me a favour, please, - asks he in a quiet voice.- If he comes, please, give this violin to him.  
She purses her lips but nods.

A month and a half spent in the preparatory camp seem like some kind of hell to John. He misses his daughter. And he never, never, never thinks about little kittens.  
The real hell waits for him in Afghanistan but unexpectedly John likes it. He was always fond of medicine, he dreamt to work hard – and now he saves lives. The war completely drags John in like a tornado. He feels that he is a part of it. Sometimes he suggests that he got mad under the first fire. The feeling of close death which didn’t touch him is unreal.

It is exciting.

For the first time in his life John has felt the full breath. He realizes that it is his place.

His sense and upbringing, which weren’t destroyed under the fire, insist, that any war is awful and he ought not to be so happy here, with his tommy gun in one hand and ambulance medical bag in the second one… But his vocation has found him, captured him and carries him through kilometres, years, sand, dirty rivers, fields of red poppies, hundreds of saved, thousands of bloody small pieces, .poker in moments of peace and dull, handprints of his little daughter palms on the letters sent by Harry.  
John doesn't ask about Sherlock either in his letters or in his phone talks. He understands that Harry would inform him immediately if he only appeared. The only thing that John allows himself on leave in one mute question in a look at Harry and a lot of and a great deal of seeking glances around .

But London is immense and an endless number of homeless is there.  
John doesn’t visit his last flat. He is afraid of nervous snap without a difference if there is the violin there or not. Even if it is not there it really doesn’t mean anything because the old cat could throw it away or sell and John can believe that Sherlock has come. But if the violin is still there… Stop, stop, stop thinking about little kittens tortured by mean boys, about little kittens in rivers. Stop, stop thinking.

It is easier.

But time passes. Instead of little handprints in letters, he reads the slowly printed messages in Skype. “Daddy I lov u,” and it’s enough for John to laugh through tears for the whole evening.

And lines are longer, more confident, with better spelling….

He receives a message from Harry. She is going to get married. She is going to marry a woman.

“What does it mean – marry a woman? Not a man?”

“Oh, John! I’m getting married to a girl. Do you know that there are not only heterosexual relationships? Or have I shocked my little brother with such an awful truth?”

“Wait for a moment, please, is it legal?”

“Yes, John. You have become completely unsocialized there, haven’t you? Same-sex marriage is officially legal from this year.”

“John?”

“John, are you here?”

“John!”  


“Yeah, sorry. Congratulations. When is your wedding? Shall I be able to come to get your married…. Or to wed you… And how does this usually happen?”

And two tens laughing loudly smiles as an answer.

And looks at them and thinks that tomorrow he will sign the contract again and he will get married to war one more time.

John likes Clara: she loves Harry and pampers Rosie even more than her aunt. Walking in the park with them John suddenly jumps badly having listened to a tune somewhere. For some moments he can’t understand, why is this music so close to him and why his heart is beating widely in his temples. Then he reminds his old place and the boy with the rain eyes, dancing in front of him with his violin.

And it looks occasionally as John turns all his company towards the sounds of the violin. The fiddler is playing standing near the round-about. This is a young black girl with a wide smile, who has been playing for children, dancing and jumping before her. Rosie immediately joins them. Harry and Clara begin to clap and stomp. John slowly moves backwards to the nearest tree and slides down the ground – he can’t stand his own feet. He supposed he forgot everything a long time ago. He was naive. It seems to him that London turns into a ghost-city for him. He has to visit it rarely. It seems to him this way will be easier.

It seems…  


It seems that he is a little bit (completely) crazy.

For three years John has been taking any other city instead of London for his vocation. But it must exactly London where something happens. Harry’s letters are so cheerful and joyful and must be a fake. There is something disturbing in Rosy’s letters, something like dog’s howling in a silent night. And Clara doesn’t write at all. And something he has a feeling that there is somebody else writing e-mails. Themes, that were spoken for thousand times. Questions, which can be answered by Harry. Strange , atypical words and phrases. And, what is most important, he can find it this in Rosy’s letters too. It is something wrong at home.

John decides to take a week off the other day and visit London.

But what man thinks best, war knows better.

The day after John’s transport drives onto a mine.

It is raining still in London. John leaves the airport, grins gloomy and zips his jacket. Then he turns up his collar. He never had any umbrella. He hitches to the taxi station and says Harry’s address.

Sometime later he stands in front of the familiar house and stares stupidly at the words “For sale”. Under them, he can find the name and phone number of the letting agency.

And it is two in the morning.

The taxi has left. John doesn’t have any mobile phone. It’s at least two miles for the nearest public phone and even more to the next hotel. And he hasn’t informed anybody when he comes exactly. Because he really didn’t know that his mate would move his plane from the base to London and could give him a lift.

John sits on his knapsack, stretching his bad leg, put his hands on the head of his walking stick and leans his forehead on them. He can’t make himself comfortable, he is wet and cold but it is better than just to stay or to walk anywhere for who knows how long. Such deeds are not for him anymore. He is ruined now.

He even doesn’t wonder that Harry hasn’t written about her removal. As for him – he mastered the art of writing fake letters to perfection during the last half a year. I was shot a little bit – oh, it is a trifle, I can run easily. I was wounded – oh, it is nonsense, an abrasion. Haven’t written for a long time? Oh, it was a difficult operation (it was the surgery on John. But is it important? Why do you care about such little details?) I’ll return soon for a long time (Forever, frankly speaking). But is it necessary to disturb and trouble your nearest and dearest with such stuff as his completely destroyed life?

John sighs and realizes that the rain has stopped. It is strange, cause he hears the noise. But nothing pour on him any more. John raises his head.

It is someone standing in front of him and holding a large umbrella. John raises his head a bit higher. The man has a mobile phone in his other hand. He pushes the button, the telephone gives some light and John loses his breath.

"Well, I have promised you. Stop crying, I've found him. We’ll be at home in half an hour."

He doesn’t turn off the light and let John see him smiling with a left corner of his mouth. He didn’t have such a manner earlier.

" Is it you?" asks John stupidly.

"Yeah, it’s me. Real me. Don’t’ slow down! Let’s do. Rosie has been crying for half an hour."

With one movement he lifts John up and John can't’ stop the shriek of pain. Through the red mist of pang, John sees the frightened eyes of rain colour and it relives his pain. Ok, it is not a hallucination. 

"Oh, it seems even worse that I’ve supposed. Maybe we’ll go to the hospital?"

"Let the hospitals go hang," murmurs John. "I want to go home. Why is Rosie crying?"

"There is a camera here. Occasionally she saw you. You were supposed to return tomorrow."

The strong arms carefully support John, helps to get into the car, covers him with something warm and dry. When the car moves and turns, John nearly falls on a given shoulder. And he chuckles.

"What?"

"It is a merry-go-round of wet kittens in life…"

"I’m not a kitten!" scolds Sherlock and John opens his eyes at last.

"Oh, my goodness, you have grown! "he is deeply surprised and Sherlock looks like so smugly as if it was his personal goal to be six feet tall and its achievement required much work hard.

It seems that John blacked out during the trip because the next that he remembers is that Sherlock wakes him up by shaking, makes him get off the car and pulls somewhere upstairs. And then he hears the yell: “Daddy!” and thirteen-year-old girl’s plump body runs into him.

"Rosie," murmured John and falls asleep standing and hugging his own daughter.

In a minute Sherlock understands the situation and he pulls them apart and sends Rosie to bed. He tries to bring John to shower but John is not able to and the only reason he is still standing is having Sherlock on one side and a wall on the other.

And Sherlock gives the idea of shower up and takes john to the bedroom, swaddles John with a warm blanket and lays near putting his arms around. John’s leg doesn’t disturb him anymore and his shoulder is getting warmer. Sherlock lies quietly and kisses John somewhere on the top of his head from time to time. And John feels so good that he could never imagine that it can be so good when everything is so bad.

After another kiss on his temple John takes his emotions under the control and says, "I’m not a gay indeed."  


Sherlock moves and whispers passionately to his lips, "I bet, I’ll make you change your mind."

And John can’t help laughing. He laughs brightly, happily. He must not laugh this way is he is exhausted, wounded and is not able to think and understand the situation clearly. He is not supposed to laugh but John does.  


And he feels that strong hands round hid him go limp and the thin nervous fingers on his shoulders slow down. Sherlock breathes out, let John out of the cocoon made of the blanket and makes himself comfortable nearby. He puts his head on John’s good shoulder and John asks, "Tell me, please."  


"What exactly shall I tell you?"  


"Everything. Where you came from last time and now, where you disappeared at that time and will you disappear one more time?…"

Sherlock gives a deep sigh, " Maybe we’ll talk tomorrow?"

"No!" protests John in a very absolute way. "Tomorrow you will make me change my mind. And I can aware you that I am very stubborn and you will have to make your best."  
Sherlock is smiling as he did earlier – happily, from the bottom of his heart.  


"We will see who is more stubborn. But still... you are so tired."  


"In short, please, " yarns John.  


"Well, only if in brief," Sherlock turns down. " I’m really Sherlock. My name is William Sherlock Scott Holmes, thanks to my parents. I was fourteen when I ran out of my home. Don’t ask any question. It was just a prison with invigilators and a hangman. When you found me, I had been tramping for a year. Living in the street was bad but I preferred it but not to return home. Then you found me. And I… I really didn’t know that such things happen. You are the kindest and the best man in the world."

John confusedly shakes his head.  


"Don’t argue with me," Sherlock angrily shakes his ringlets of hair." You were the only one who didn’t want anything from me. You gave me your food, your clothes, your home, you trusted me your daughter and your life. I could kill you while you were sleeping, steal all your wealth, sell your daughter. But you trusted me. And you even didn’t ask me about anything. I decided if I want to help you, do anything at all or just play with Rosie. You really can’t imagine what did it mean for me. And then you bought me the violin. I didn’t realize that time… If it weren’t me, you would have been able to stand till you find a job. You would have managed. But it was me to make you lost your little savings. And when I understood this I went to my brother. Yeah, I have an elder brother. Certainly, he is a pretentious fat ass but he was the only in my family who treats me as a human being. I think he loves me , in his way of course… When I lived in the street he sometimes pulled out of some tight spots and didn’t ask me to return home. He knew… It is not important. In general, he could help you with job hunting and I went to him. And I was caught. It was the moment our parents visited him. –Sherlock winces as in pain and falls silent. John touches his head with kid gloves. – The following isn’t interesting. I finished school without attending classes, entered the university and began to look for you. Your former landlady handed me the violin. But I was an idiot and just put it on the shelf without opening because my Amati was given back to me… After the graduation party, I sent all my relatives to hell and left. And now I am a consulting detective. I invented this job by myself. – Sherlock proudly looks at John. – When the police are at a standstill they go to me. And it was easy then. I found Rosie and Harriet. And only after this I found out your note. You can’t imagine what a fool I made of myself."

"And Harriet…Guess what, she recognized me. She had some problems with her wife and she started drinking. Clara couldn’t take Rosie with her. We talked and Harry made me Rosie’s temporary joint custody. She divorced with Clara. She is receiving treatment for alcoholism. And your daughter is staying with me. And you’ve returned. So we can live together…."  
Sherlock irresolutely glances at John. "O my God," thinks John, "does he really have any doubts?"

"Certainly, " he says firmly."But frankly speaking, you’ll have to support us…"  


"I’ll hit you!" Sherlock roars. "How dare you…? How can you say this? I’ll do everything for Rosie and you…"  
He gasps for air and John takes his face and kisses him to calm and stop talking.

"Keep quiet," whispers John."I know. I’m sorry. I’ve said something wrong. Something foolish, I’m not very clever."

"Nonsense. It doesn’t matter, " Sherlock licks his lips. " You have the wisest heart in the world. I know. And sleep, please."

He makes himself comfortable and John mutters below his breath: "All kittens climb to the bed to get warm, even when they are grown."  


Sherlock hisses, "I’m not a kitten." 

And John falls asleep with a smile on his lips.

And he doesn’t hear Sherlock’s whisper, "It was the best day in my life, John. The day when you found a kitten…"

**Author's Note:**

> I'm very grateful for your reading, attention and kudos as they are very important for me. And please, be generous and give your kudos for the author using the link https://ficbook.net/readfic/7452501


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